


all on my mind

by twilightstargazer



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Netflix and Chill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-08 23:37:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16439030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilightstargazer/pseuds/twilightstargazer
Summary: (three times clarke griffin tried to sleep with bellamy blake and one time she actually did)





	all on my mind

**Author's Note:**

> BFF fill for the prompt: I keep trying to turn hanging out into Netflix and Chill but whatever we pick to watch always ruins the mood (too scary, too gross, too funny, too interesting, too sad, etc)

_ (i) _

Five minutes after meeting Bellamy Blake Clarke decides that she’s going to sleep with him.

It’s not really some grand revelation or life-changing event or anything like that. She’s at a party, delightfully tipsy, and he’s standing in the corner, surrounded by a crowd of friends and admirers combined, looking good in dark red v-neck that pulls tight across his biceps.

(Like, really good.)

Raven left her no more than ten minutes ago, bickering with some guy from her engineering course about the best way to empty a keg, but not before reminding her that the best way to get over someone is by getting under somebody else.

(She’d just come back from a year abroad, nursing a broken heart after her girlfriend of almost ten months called things quits because long distance was a hassle. She spent at least a fortnight crying on Raven’s shoulder about it, snuggled up in her cramped single.)

So Clarke figures why the hell not and steels her nerves, downing one last shot before making her way over to the other side of the room where Bellamy stood, chatting easily with some freshman who was clearly trying too hard.

He doesn’t have a drink in hand so she grabs two unopened bottles of Budweiser and shoulders herself into the conversation.

“Wanna go a round with me?” she asks, gesturing to the table where a game of beer pong was close to coming to an end. 

He gives her a quick but obvious once over, the teetering freshman in too tall heels already forgotten. “Depends, think you can keep up with me?”

Clarke smirks, popping the caps off by using the bottles themselves, a neat little party trick she picked up in her time abroad. There’s a vague shimmer of respect in his eyes when she passes one over and he tips the bottle towards her before taking a pull. She does the same.

“I think you’re the one who’s going to have trouble keeping up with me,” she tells him.

“We’ll see about that, princess,” he drawls, taking a step closer. He smells surprisingly nice, given the fact that they’ve been at a frat party for the past couple of hours. She would have expected him to smell like sweat and cheap beer but instead he smells woodsy, with a subtle note of Irish Springs, the only soap boys seem to know about.

They end up playing a whopping four rounds together, managing to win three of them. By the fourth they’re more than a little tipsy and Clarke can’t stop giggling, pressing her face into his chest and Bellamy gets a lot more touchy the more he drinks, his hands tracing all over her body as he seems more than content to leave it on the small of her back.

They suffer a crushing defeat but they’re both so buzzed that they can barely pay any attention to it, instead just laughing and tripping over their own feet as they struggle to walk away from the table.

“I think I’ve had enough to drink for tonight,” she hums, giggling as she slips her fingers into the pockets of his hoodie and wiggles them.

“Me too,” he says as he pulls her along to the back of the house, to the kitchen. They end up splitting a bottle of water on the porch steps, the crisp late September air making her nose and cheeks go pink and Bellamy lifts a hand to tweak at it.

“Wanna get out of here?” she asks, leaning into him. “It’s getting kind of rowdy.”

He snorts. “Yeah, only a matter of time before someone calls the cops on a bunch of rambunctious drunk college kids.”

“You’re clearly not one of those,” she snorts, “What kind of drunk uses the word  _ rambunctious _ ?”

“Hey, I’ll have you know I get particularly verbose when inebriated.”

“See now you’re sounding like an Oscar Wilde novel or some shit.”

He cocks his head to the side. “Have you ever read an Oscar Wilde novel?”

“Nope,” she says, popping the ‘p’ and he laughs, a big shouting belly laugh that’s far too inappropriate for the given conversation and that’s how she really knows he’s drunk too.

“So Mr. Verbose,” she starts off, knocking her shoulder into his, “What say you and I get out of here? My apartment is about a block away and I can tell you that I have some much better tasting things than Budweiser.”

His hand is warm on the small of her back, and she can feel the heat of it even through her layers of clothing. “You propositioning me, princess?”

“I’m just saying, I have craft.”

“Damn you really know the key to a guy’s heart, huh.”

The walk to her apartment isn’t a very long one. Bellamy tells her that he lives on Greek row, but he spends most of his free time at his apartment about twenty minutes out of town with his mom and sister.

Once inside, he shrugs off his hoodie leaving him once again in that red tee she loves so much, and Clarke goes to fetch drinks. She wasn’t lying about having a six pack of the good stuff, and he heaves a contented sigh as he takes the first sip.

“You’re such a drama king,” she teases him, nudging his calf with a sock-clad foot.

“Hey, Greek life has made me forget that there are better things than Bud and Heineken out there,” he defends himself, and it makes her smile as she pulls up Netflix before plopping down on the couch next to him.

She clicks on the first thing she sees, some food show that shows off some of the best of the best. It seems mundane enough that they could talk over it without caring but also has the right energy to fill in the gaps of any potential awkward silences.

Clarke’s initial intention was to let the show play quietly in the background while they talk. He’d swing an arm around her shoulder, she’d rest her feet in his lap, just gently grazing his inner thigh… 

Ideally they’d be en route to her bedroom before the first episode is even finished if everything had gone according to plan.

Except everything does not go according to plan because they both end up  _ engrossed  _ in the stupid show.

They’re almost two episodes in before she realises that they’re both glued to the screen, watching as the chef sautes something, flipping the contents of the pan one handed. She has her feet in his lap but she hasn’t even tried to ‘accidentally’ nudge his dick even once, too consumed with the proper way to julienne an onion.

And then, if that wasn’t enough, her stomach has the audacity to growl, cutting through the comfortable silence they’ve been sitting in and causing Bellamy to burst out laughing.

“Shut up,” she grumbles, swatting at him as she feels the blood flow to her cheeks. She hasn’t eaten anything since her pregaming session with Raven all those hours ago and even then that was just a basket of chicken wings split between the two of them.

“You know, there’s this great little taco truck down on seventh,” he says, his hand absentmindedly rubbing her ankle. “We could go there.”

She’s still drunk enough that venturing out at 2 a.m. with a guy she barely knows to get tacos doesn’t sound like a bad idea so she agrees wholeheartedly and steals his hoodie, too lazy to rummage through the coat closet to find her own.

Their hands bump into each other as they walk but he doesn’t make move to hold it. Clarke doesn’t mind. She wants to sleep with him, not a relationship.

The tacos  _ are  _ good and she ends up eating three before she realises. Bellamy insists on paying and she lets him, but only after he agrees to let her buy them gelato from the store around the corner from her place.

She gets a scoop of chocolate and he surprises her by taking coconut. She’s not as drunk as she was before, but the edges of her vision are still a bit hazy and she can’t help but get distracted by the way the orange glow of the streetlamps play with the contours of his face. Her gelato starts to melt down her hand and Bellamy swipes at the trail, sucking on his thumb.

“I feel like I haven’t seen you around here before,” he says as he walks her back up to her apartment. “Are you new? Or a transfer?”

She shakes her head, biting a bit of her cone. “I spent my sophomore year abroad. And I didn’t really get out much during my freshman year.”

Clarke spent most of her free time at Finn’s campus back then. He didn’t have a car but she did so she spent her weekends driving an hour up the coast to get to his dorm. This was before she found out that he had an intelligently gorgeous girlfriend who off interning for NASA of all people.

It just seems that her entire college life has been littered with pain and heartbreak.

Bellamy whistles low. “Where’d you go?”

“Italy. I’m doing a minor in art.”

“And major?”

“Biology.”

He cocks his head to the side, appraising her. “That’s a strange combo.”

She shrugs, taking a bit of her gelato. “I’m a strange gal.”

She figures telling him that her mother wants her to follow her footsteps and become a doctor while he dead father wanted her to follow her dreams is a bit too heavy for a first… whatever this is.

Instead she adds on, “Besides, there’s art in science. I think the two of them go hand in hand.”

“I think you’re sounding drunker now than you were before.”

She knocks shoulders with him. “Shut up,” she says and he smiles, teeth glinting in the dark. “What’s your major?”

“Classics.”

“Huh.”

“Huh?”

“You don’t seem like a classics kind of guy.”

“Yeah?” he asks, still smiling at her. “What kind of guy do I seem like?”

“Someone who’d major in chicks and beer,” she confesses and is relieved when he chuckles.

“Thought about it for a while there in my freshman year but nothing gets me harder than some Homer in the afternoons,” he deadpans.

She laughs, fishing her keys out of her boot to unlock the door.

“Wanna come inside and tell me more about Homer?” she teases, “I’m sure I have a copy of the Odyssey lying around somewhere.”

“You tryna seduce me, princess?” he asks, looming over her with a smirk.

“Maybe.” She leans into him, misjudging the distance a bit and letting her nose rub against his chin. “Guess we’ll just have to see how much the Odyssey does it for you.”

Bellamy does come inside-- he spends the night in fact, the two of them sprawled out on her queen sized bed-- but nothing happens.

They finish their gelato and Clarke shows him pictures from Italy, skimming past the ones with Lexa, and tells him about seeing the Colosseum in person, sketching out its arches and columns, and he’s overflowing with commentary.

She’s not too sure what time they fall asleep; all she remembers is lying diagonally across the bed, her head at the bottom of it, a pillow sandwiched between her legs as he tells her about the myths that relate to her pictures. He was talking about Athens she thinks, how they came to name the city when she drifted off.

Bellamy’s not there when she wakes up sometime around noon the next day, the hangover partially staved off, though her mouth does feel unbearably dry. It’s only after she stumbles into the kitchen, half blind, and downs two glasses of water does she notice the scrambled eggs and bacon, gone cold by now, in the microwave and a stupid grin stretches across her face.

It widens even further when she spots a ripped piece of paper with his cellphone number scrawled across it and stays there for the remainder of the day.

* * *

 

_ (ii) _

Clarke Griffin is texting Bellamy Blake.

It’s been about a month since the party, since she tried and failed to hook up with him, but Clarke finds that surprisingly she’s not too cut up over it.

(She rationalises it by if she had hooked up with him that night they’d never gotten around to talking and he’d never make her breakfast and leave his number on a slip of paper like they do in the movies.)

He texts like an old man, in full, grammatically correct sentences with proper punctuation and a thorough lack of emojis. Clarke is horrified at first-- not to mention a bit embarrassed-- because she lies on the other end of the spectrum, using any and all shortcuts and acronyms known to man and tacking on at least 3 different emojis to the end of each spelling error filled message.

At first she’s worried that he’d see her as nothing but an annoying, childish little girl, but after an appropriate amount of light teasing, Bellamy is surprisingly chill with it.

In fact, by the end of the third week she’s gotten him to start using emojis. It’s just the plain frowny one, and he adds to the end of every. single. message.

It makes him come off as a curmudgeonly old man and she tells him as much.

“God, I can’t believe you’re flirting with Bellamy Blake,” Raven says with a roll of her eyes one day while they’re having lunch in a little hole in the wall cafe. “Actually, I can’t believe you’re flirting with Bellamy Blake and neither of you have done anything about it. You two are like, the most detached people I know when it comes to sex.”

“I’m not detached,” Clarke grumbles as she furiously swipes through her lists of emojis. Eventually she settled on elves, chopsticks and an eye, all of which have nothing in common with what they’re currently talking about.

(He’s telling her about some guy he got in an argument with about LGBT issues in class today and somehow that turned into asking her if she’s registered to vote in the upcoming midterms which, of  _ course  _ she is.)

She snorts. “Oh please. You and Bellamy can manage to find someone, flirt, have your two hours of fun and then leave without even catching the slightest bit of feelings. If that’s not detached then I don’t know what is.”

Clarke frowns. “But we’re not,” she insists, just as her phone beeps with an incoming text.

_ Does that mean a Lord of the Rings marathon with accompanying Chinese food the night of election results? _

She frowns at it for a second before realising that the emojis of her previous text could be taken that way and then shoots off a quick response before Raven could press her any further.

_ yea sure i guess. im not doing anythign else that night. byob!!1! _

She puts her phone on the table face down before looking back at Raven.

“Look,” she says, “Did I want to sleep with Bellamy? Yeah. I did. We even went home together but it didn’t end up happening. Do I still want to sleep with him? I don’t know. Maybe he’s not as hot as I thought he was. Maybe that was just the alcohol talking.”

“Trust me,” she says, dry, “He’s still hot. I would tell you that you could run into him at the library to see just how hot he is, but you’re already running low on batteries for your vibrator.”

“ _ Raven _ ,” Clarke hisses, kicking the shin of her good leg.

“What? I went looking for some double As for the flashlight when I was fixing your dryer last week. You only had like 2 left and I know for a fact you bought a pack last month.”

“You are a terrible person.”

“A terrible person who’s trying to get you  _ laid _ ,” she says, a bit too loud and drawing a scandalised look from the woman sitting at the table next to them.

“Oh my god, please shut up,” Clarke begs, looking at her from between her fingers. Her face feels hot.

“All I’m saying is that you should definitely invite Bellamy to binge Daredevil with you next week,” says Raven as she drains the last bit of her lemonade from her glass. “And when I say binge I mean call him over, snuggle up next to him during the first ep and then have his head between your legs by the second.”

“ _ Raven _ .”

“It’s a good plan!”

“I thought you and I were watching it together?” she asks, furrowing her brows.

Raven flashes her a razor-sharp smile. “Change of plans. I’ll be doing the exact same thing I told you, just with someone else.”

She watches her suspiciously. “Is it the same guy from engineering that you’re always fighting with? Shaw or whatever?”

“Maybe,” she drawls, dragging her finger through the ring of condensation left behind by her glass. “I’ll let you know Saturday if I make it to brunch.”

“What do you mean if,” Clarke sputters as the other girl cackles while grabbing her things, dropping a twenty on the table to cover her half of the bill.

“I said what I said,” she tells her, retying her ponytail. “Oh and if you really want to know if he’s still hot, just ask for a picture instead of thinking about stalking the poor boy.”

“I wasn’t going to  _ stalk  _ him-”

“Mhmm, sure Clarke.”

She throws a rolled up napkin at her. “Get out of here.”

Later, Clarke does send a picture of herself, but only because she figured it would better capture the moment than any amount of emojis could.

She captions it:  _ Just finished my piece for this week. What has more paint on it, me or the canvas? _

After a couple of minutes she gets a reply and it’s of Bellamy, grainy because of the low light clearly spread out on his bed with a book lying open across his chest. She doesn’t recognise the title of it but that might be because she’s distracted by the fact that he’s not wearing a shirt.

He really is just as hot as she remembered, probably even more so.

_ I have ten chapters to read before Monday. As the kids say these days, ‘kmn’. _

She lets out a soft snort at his reply, texting back,  _ don’t lie, this is probably a wet dream come 2 life 4 u _

And then, before she could lose anymore of her nerve,  _ wyd friday?? wanna come over & watch daredevil 3? _

It’s a yes of course and Clarke tries her very best to ignore the butterflies in her stomach that have popped up because of it. They last all week, all the way until Friday when Clarke is ordering a pizza for them to split and deciding if she should wear her good panties for the visit.

Bellamy shows up right on time, a six pack of beer in hand and two slices of chocolate cake from the bakery that she loves as well as two packs of popcorn.

“I wasn’t sure just how much binging we were doing,” he says, sheepish. “It’s thirteen episodes. I’m gonna be overnighting princess.”

“Well, as long as you promise to make breakfast, you’re welcome in my bed anytime,” she says and the corners of his mouth curl into a smirk.

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” he rumbles, his hand dropping to her hip to give it a brief squeeze and a flash of heat bolts through her.

It’s going to happen tonight, she thinks. She can feel it and she’s pretty sure he can too.

“Put that in the fridge,” she says, nodding towards the six pack. “I’ve already got a round ready and waiting to go.”

“Always thinking ahead,” he grins, tugging on a lock of her hair. “This is why I like you, princess.”

It warms her inside as well, feeling as though someone has left a candle in untended in her ribcage, leaking warmth everywhere.

They settle on the couch, a bag of popcorn and pizza between them while the beers stay on the table, as well as a couple bottles of water. It’s still fairly early, just past sunset, so Clarke isn’t too preoccupied with getting the ball rolling as yet. Maybe after the first ep is done and she can clear away the food she’ll give it a shot but as for now, she’s more than happy to sit here and listen to Bellamy’s ongoing commentary.

The new season is surprisingly good considering how much she hasn’t been enjoying the last few Netflix and Marvel shows, possibly even more so with Bellamy’s added comments. Soon one episode turns into two and then two into three and before she knows it, it’s almost 4 a.m. and she and Bellamy are cuddled under a blanket together watching episode nine unfurl.

“Do you want to keep watching?” she asks when the message pops up on the screen at the end of the episode and he looks conflicted.

“I want to say yes because we only have 4 more to watch but at the same time-” he gets cut off by a yawn and she laughs.

“Yeah, same here,” she says before wiggling out of their makeshift blanket cocoon and stretching. “You’re welcome to stay the night by the way. I was serious about that.”

“Princess…”

It’s a bit of a back and forth before he finally agrees and grumps his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth. It’s almost adorable if she’s being honest.

This time he strips out of his shirt before getting into bed, and Clarke tries not to stare.

(Much.)

She ditches her pants but keeps on her socks, the Batman ones that he spent a good hour making fun of and climbs in next to him and he immediately rolls into her side, spooning her to him.

It’s not quite the sleeping with Bellamy Blake she had in mind for this evening but if she’s being honest, it’s even better than she ever thought possible.

* * *

 

_ (iii) _

The thing about Novembers is that, without fail, Clarke always ends up sick.

At least this year it’s not bad sick.

One time she had to spend half a day in A&E, throwing up so much that they had to put her on an IV and then even after that she was on antibiotics for a whole two weeks. This time it’s just the flu so while she feels miserable, she knows that she’ll be fine after a week or so.

It doesn’t stop her from complaining though, to Bellamy, to Raven, to  _ anyone  _ that would listen.

Her flu is fairly mild up until the third day when she comes down with a fever. She spends most of the day delirious, in and out of sleep, only truly getting out of bed when someone knocks at her door around dusk.

Bellamy stands on the other side, looking sheepish as he holds two overflowing grocery bags.

“I know you probably forgot about what we had planned but I figured I’d stop by anyway to check on you,” he says, rushing to get it all out even though Clarke still isn’t sure if she’s imagining things or not.

“Uh hi,” she says, sniffing.

“Hi.” He rocks back and forth on his heels. “Can I come in?”

“Uh, sure.”

He deposits the bags on the counter and then starts to unpack them, pulling out a bottle of Nyquil as well as some Advil and Tylenol in addition to two cartons of juice (one orange, one apple), a loaf of bread, cheese and tomatoes. From the other one he pulls out at least four bottles of blue gatorade and another smaller bag containing Chinese takeaway.

“I uh, bought you soup,” he says, shy all of a sudden even as he pushes the styrofoam container towards her. It’s wonton soup she’s delighted find, and the spice scented steam is already working on clearing her sinuses.

“You bought me a lot more than just soup,” she says, still taken aback by the share amount of stuff covering her kitchen counters.

“Yeah, well, you’re sick,” he mumbles, going red in the face and Clarke smiles, small and soft.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

There’s a brief moment of silence there where they’re just looking at each other until Bellamy remembers and says, “I almost forgot, I brought the Lord of the Rings over on DVD. You know, assuming your DVD player is working.”

“It should be. I haven’t used it since I got Netflix though.”

“Yeah, well Netflix doesn’t have Lord of the Rings,” he grumbles, walking over to the tv stand and playing up with the dials. “Sit down and eat your soup. Have you seen a doctor?”

“No because it’s just the  _ flu _ .”

“The flu can cause pneumonia if left untreated, Clarke,” he sniffs.

“I’m not going to get pneumonia, Bellamy,” she rolls her eyes.

“You don’t know that,” he mutters under his breath as he finally gets the tray to pop open. “I wasn’t sure which one you take so I bought a couple.”

“Tylenol is fine.”

“Good. So eat your soup and take two Tylenol. We’re going to watch Fellowship of the Ring.”

“Yes,  _ dad _ .”

He flips her off and Clarke shuffles into the kitchen to grab her water bottle and a spoon. She can’t believe Bellamy did this for her, especially when she’s out here looking like a homeless corpse with a rat nest for hair.

She lets down her hair from the bun it’s been in for the past few days and wets her fingers, trying to detangle it a bit but it doesn’t really help that much. She also tries to wash the grime off her face right there in the kitchen sink but resigns herself that Bellamy will just have to deal with her looking like the mess she is.

Back in the living room Bellamy’s already got the movie on, paused while he waits for her to return. He has a tray from god knows where with her soup balanced on top of it as well as a glass of juice and two Tylenol tablets on a napkin.

He’s such a fucking mother hen.

“C’mere,” he says, patting the space next to him. The grey blanket she’s been curled up in for the past few days is gone and replaced by the floral one she keeps on her bed. Clarke doesn’t hesitate sitting next to him, curling into his side almost immediately. Bellamy lets her, automatically putting his arm around her shoulders and waits until she settles before putting the tray on her lap.

She closes her eyes as she takes the first bite, sighing happily. For the past few days she’s been living off of microwavable quesadillas and oatmeal from the packet. This soup feels like it’s the best thing she’s had in  _ years _ .

Bellamy scritches at her scalp while she eats and for once, stays quiet through the entire viewing. She does miss his commentary somewhat, but the silence is comforting, just the sounds of the movie and their breathing.

He makes her take the Tylenol afterwards, both of them even though she insists that she’s feeling a lot better already, and has her drink out the glass of orange juice.

Bellamy Blake is a cross between an old man and an overbearing housewife all stuffed in one young and hot body.

She falls asleep during the middle of the first movie and by the time she wakes up he’s got the second one on while he struggles to pick up rice with his chopsticks.

His hand is still in her hair, gently stroking it.

It’s all very domestic and she blames her sleep and flu addled brain for when she stretches up and kisses the edge of his jaw.

He starts a bit, and the piece of chicken he had en route to his mouth falls back into the box.

“Hi,” he says, letting his hand fall back on her shoulder.

“Hi.”

“Feeling better?”

She just hums, stretching her arms and legs out. Her pointed toes nudge his thigh and he prods her ribcage, making her shriek, curling in on herself.

“Much better,” she says as she nuzzles the junction where his neck meets his shoulder.

“That’s good.”

“Mhmm.”

Clarke sits up, letting the blanket pool around her legs. She really is feeling better, not as congested and her throat doesn’t hurt quite as much. She leans against Bellamy for the rest of the film, dropping little kisses against the side of his face just because she can. Each time she does it he jerks, but never once does he actually tell her to stop.

When the movie comes to an end she leans up once more but this time he turns his head just as his hand comes up to catch her jaw.

It’s a soft kiss, slow and chaste and just overall  _ sweet _ .

A bit too sweet for her taste so she nibbles at his bottom lip, sucking it into her mouth for a brief second and feels the rumble of a quiet moan in his chest.

That’s when the Bellamy Blake she’s heard so much about comes out to play, the one who takes charge and directs things to his liking. Clarke’s more than fine with that. She’s come to realise that she  _ likes  _ being manhandled by Bellamy Blake.

She doesn’t quite know how she ended up in his lap, knees on either side of his hips as the intro to the final movie plays in the background. She doesn’t mind at all. She likes sitting in his lap, being able to rock against him ever so often while he mouths down her neck, fingers dipping beneath her oversized sweater to trace up the column of her spine.

All she can feel around her is Bellamy, all she’s thinking about is Bellamy, every other thought gone from her mind-- no sickness, no more fretting about school, just a constant stream of  _ Bellamy, Bellamy, Bellamy. _

Of course, her body on the hand remembers that she’s sick and it decides to remind her by making her sneeze four times in a row.

It’s a mood killer at the very least.

“Probably shouldn’t be exerting yourself that much,” he says, panting a little. His cheeks are flushed with a messy hair and bright ears and a thrill goes through her. She’s responsible for that.

“I mean, I could,” she says, before coughing.

“Yeah, you can’t.” He pulls her back against his chest and his fingers start back playing with her hair.

She’s already half asleep she feels it when he drops a kiss to the crown of her head.

When she wakes up next, they’re both in her bed, Bellamy shirtless and cuddled around her, snoring softly as he sleeps. It’s not a bad alternative if she’s being honest.

* * *

 

_ (+i) _

As a general rule of thumb, Clarke Griffin does not date.

She’s gone on several dates with several different people in the past of course, but as far as actual dating goes, well, she’s only dated a total of two people in her entire life and both of those ended horribly which is why she much rather stick to hooking up.

Whenever Clarke Griffin does agree to go on a date with someone, she has a full list of rules that need to be followed to a T in order to get another.

  1. They must be on time (a ten minute grace period is given if meeting up somewhere, traffic is a lame excuse)
  2. All dates must be agreed upon by both parties at least a week in advance (no surprises)
  3. Ideally, dates are indoor activities that involve sitting down and eating. Outdoor dates, especially during the winter time, are prohibited at all costs.
  4. Run if they call their ex crazy.
  5. Run if they think gender inequality isn’t real.
  6. Run if they think Louis CK is actually funny.
  7. No sex on the first date.



It’s a pretty solid list, she has to admit. It’s helped her thin out her options much more and cut down on the amount of creepy, rude, all round assholes she’d have to deal with.

Of course, things with Bellamy are different.

See, Clarke knows she likes him and she knows that while he’s an asshole, he’s not  _ that  _ kind of asshole.

So she lets him break some of the rules.

They haven’t actually come out and put a label to their… whatever this is.  She kissed him, he kissed back, she would have probably slept with him had she not been sick, he spent the night nonetheless and kissed her again in the morning before he left, and if that wasn’t enough, the most telling thing thus far was the fact that he started using the heart emoji just for her.

Clarke Griffin has gotten Bellamy Blake to start using  _ emojis _ . He really must like her.

So when he calls her Friday and asks if she’s busy tomorrow, she says no and he says great, I’m taking you out.

And that was that.

No,  _ do you want to go out? _

No place or time.

No  _ nothing _ .

And yet here she is, more excited than she’s ever been for a first date before in her life.

He texted to say get ready for five, that jeans and a jacket should be fine. He’s half an hour late, which is odd for him, but is explained by the fact that he stopped by her favourite Thai place on the other side of town to pick up dinner for them both.

“Tell me where we’re going,” Clarke says when they turn off onto a dirt road lined by trees. The suspension in his truck creaks as he navigates through the potholes.

“It’s a surprise.”

“The further we drive out, the more I think you’re gonna kill me and bury my body somewhere.”

“Come on princess,” he says, rolling his eyes, “If I was going to murder you I wouldn’t bury you after. I would make a mask out of your skin.”

“Good to know you’ve put so much thought into this,” she says wryly and he squeezes her hand.

They end up pulling up by a lake where members of the history society are already in full swing, setting up a large screen and projector, building a bonfire and laying out snacks.

“Is this a cult?” she asks as she hops out of the truck. “Did you turn the history society into a goddamn cult?”

“Yeah that’s exactly what I did,” he deadpans as he grabs a towel and a bag from the truck bed. He directs her to grab the food he picked up from the backseat. “It’s the biannual bonfire night. It’s where we watch bad movies and get drunk off Miller Lite and talk about constellations.”

“That’s actually kind of cute.”

“The myths behind the constellations are filled with lots of murder and incest.”

“That is… less cute.”

His teeth gleam in the darkness and his skin looks like bronze in the flickering flames of the bonfire.

“Go find a spot,” he says, passing the towel over to her. “Get a good one. I wanna be able to complain about these movies properly.” 

Bonfire night with the history society is actually really nice. She almost doesn’t mind that it’s mid-November and the temperature tends to dip into single digits at night.

Bellamy had the foresight to bring an extra blanket that they cuddle up in while they eat their pad thai and she has a front row seat to see him complain about Troy. It’s great.

They get drunk off of cheap beer and even cheap tequila that tastes like paint thinner-- at least she does because he has to drive home, and spends the latter half of the night slurring over how pretty he is.

They get back to her apartment around 3 a.m. and Clarke really does intend for them to go straight to bed but, well.

She’s still tipsy and tipsy Clarke can’t be held liable for she behaves around shirtless Bellamy.

She didn’t intend on them having sex but hey, if the opportunity presents itself, why not.

“That was good,” she says after, when they’re lying side by side, out of breath and sweaty and naked.

He bites her shoulder. “Just good?”

“Oh I’m sorry, does your ego need stroking?”

“No, but you could stroke something else in a couple of minutes.”

She slaps his chest and he laughs. “You’re an insatiable heathen.”

“Whatever, you like it.”

Her smile softens at the edges as she looks at him, with his dark brown eyes and curly hair and freckles that she could spend days searching for patterns in.

“I like  _ you _ , dummy,” she says, kissing his knuckles.

He softens as well, stroking her back from her face and rubbing his nose to her cheek.

“I like you too.”

(In the morning he makes them pancakes and they bicker over the importance of vitamins as he tries to get her to drink some juice and take a supplement. He still kisses her before he goes though, long and thorough up against the doorframe and leaves her feeling warm inside and she realises that this is her life now.)

(It’s a pretty fucking good one if she’s being honest.)


End file.
